Sir Clinton nodded without making any comment. He was stooping over the dead man's face, examining it closely. After a moment or two, he signed to Wendover to come to his side.
“Smell anything peculiar, squire?”
Wendover sniffed sagaciously once or twice; his face lighted up; and then a look of perplexity came over his features.
“I know that smell, Clinton. I recognise it well enough; but I can't put a name to it somehow.”
“Think again,” the chief constable advised. “Go back to your early days and you'll probably recall it.”
Wendover sniffed several times, but remained baffled. A look of interest passed over Sapcote's face. He came forward, bent down, and sniffed in his turn.
“I know what it is, sir. It's pear-drops—these sweets the children eat. Peter always had a bag of sweets in the place for youngsters that came to see him.”
“That's it,” Wendover exclaimed with some relief. “I knew I hadn't smelt that perfume for ages and ages; and yet it used to be familiar once upon a time.”
Sir Clinton seemed to have passed to an earlier line of thought. He turned to the constable.
“Peter Hay suffered from apoplexy, the doctor told me. Had he any other troubles? Bad digestion? Asthma? Anything you can think of?”